


we two

by kinpika



Series: invitis canibus venari [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Murder on the dance floor, Prompts per chapter, zevwarden week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26511154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: Seven days, seven prompts.Trace, down lines that cut along his cheek. Hard and bold, like a heroine should be. “Thank you, for taking the time to love me in return.”
Relationships: Female Amell/Zevran Arainai
Series: invitis canibus venari [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152740
Kudos: 8





	1. EYE OF THE BEHOLDER [identity][admiration]

“What did I do to be graced with such a look, oh fair warden?”

And with the words that left him, Zevran found himself greeted with a softer smile. Humoured, at the title, as he could tell by the glitter at the corner of her eye. Laughter that was smothered by the campfire and moonlight. If only due to current company, and the rather hefty dinner that still sat in his bowl.

“Nothing.”

“Surely it was not nothing.”

Amell studies him. Always in such a critical manner, where wrinkles form between her brow and Zevran would liken it to how he found her studying various books they picked up along the way. Dissection wrapped up in fascination, coated with a heavy amount of sheltered upbringing. That was how he read the turn of expression. One of many.

“I was just thinking about what you told me last night.”

“Many things were shared. You may have to be a little more specific, hm? What specific hour are we referring to?”

That earns him a snort, from Amell and surrounding company. “Well and truly _before_ , Zevran. About your… last job.”

“Ah.” His turn to frown. Stare. Watch and wait for the next words that don’t come, allowing for him to clear his throat. “I did not realise you had more questions. Of course, I should have realised. With you, it is question after question, until you seem to exhaust all options for the night.”

Cheeks colour, but Amell does not let herself be deterred. If anything, she slides just a touch closer along the makeshift bench — a tree they had felled when finding a clearing for the camp. It had taken her one swift movement to cut, another to catch. Not unlike the moment now, where her hand was against his, little finger overlapping.

“I was thinking,” low voice, just the two of them. Not like it had been any other way since. “That I admire you — for what you’ve done, who you’ve become. You told me all these stories, which I think was you trying to scare me off.

“And whilst I do think you are the luckiest bastard this side of Orlais… I don’t know. I just find you remarkable. _Remarkably_ admirable, even.”

There was no grin, as if her intent was to embarrass. That would have been easy to understand and handle. No emotion Zevran knew, as Amell’s eyes finally leave his face to stare into the fire. Just the soft smile, echoed words. Lump in his throat, that grew and grew. Such a strange place to be in, where he could do little more than watch, unravelling her words and holding them close.


	2. LA PETITE MORT [death][weak spots]

“Raise your shield as I’m about to strike. So you block, see?”

Motions repeated again, as they had been for hours. Alistair was surprising many with his apparently saintly patience, considering his cries that he simply did not belong in the Chantry. Now, Zevran wasn’t so quick as to call any man a liar, but with how the younger man lifted Amell’s elbow once more, to imitate a block, well. It was all there, wasn’t it?

Beside him, Leliana nursed a makeshift mug of tea, or juice, or even wine. At their feet, Oghren had joined them, having apparently deciding that for the night, his attempts at helping the wardens was done. Abandoned weaponry lay about, and it was a rather hilarious sight, if they didn’t all collectively wince when Amell seemed to stagger.

“You know, Zevran, you could probably help her.”

Not so much a look out the corner of his eye, instead watching how the shield clatters to the ground. Fingers push sweaty hair from forehead, and chest rises and falls. “Why is it that when you start a sentence in that manner, I am given a suggestion, hm? Should you not also help our dear Warden in the way of combat?”

Leliana grins at him, he knows. He refuses to look. “Maybe I have watched you two long enough to know better. Or, having seen her burn up a bow in anger, I know I won’t have any luck. And you are the luckiest man in Thedas, no?”

“I’d almost ask if that was flattery, but knowing you, it wasn’t.”

“You’re catching on.”

“I like you like this.” Zevran slides off the back of the cart, where they had made themselves quite comfortable. Already long defeated in any manner of talking himself out of such a trial. It had been weeks since they had left Haven, and something about Redcliffe had left Amell asking for martial training. Only a matter of time. “There’s a snap to your words. Reminds me of—”

“Don’t you _dare_.”

“I was going to say a _bowstring_.” And Zevran fakes a gasp, walking backwards now. “Leliana, where was your mind?”

The glare was worth it, if only as he turns just upon watching how Amell sighs once more. Done. Defeated and if only this had been so easy, months before. Give her a stave and point her at some darkspawn, there was never an issue. Apparently, not being immediately gifted at handling a sword was a sore spot for the mage. Zevran didn’t push the obvious into a joke, of course. He handled his manners well.

Like how he scooped up the spare swords laying around, twirling them in his hands. Light and barely sharp. Would take a few turns to truly do some damage beyond bruising. That would work fine. Behind her, Alistair sighs, in an oddly affectionate sort of way, taking his leave with a ‘I actually _hope_ you can help’.

“Are you here to offer some wonderfully obvious ideas, too?” Amell is six shades of annoyed, from the way the red covers her. Blotchy, unkempt and there’s all kinds of smeared dirt from when she had hit the ground.

Ironically, Zevran found her more attractive like this. But he would keep that little tidbit to himself, especially when he raises right hand, left behind his back. “Sword at the ready, my lady. We have no use for shields.”

“I’m not sparring you.”

Compensating for the sharpness, Zevran’s smile is wicked. Left hand coming around, to find a staggered block, nick in the handle. Amell’s hands hold the weight there, flat against the blade. Ignoring the right. Until she steps back, hiss leaving when Zevran catches air. If there was some magic at play, he doesn’t comment, as it was so easy to back her around, where she would be,

“Dead.”

Pointing end finding the lower left of her back. Close enough that Zevran could spy curled hair at the base of her neck, beads of sweat, the way colour crawls up her ears. Embarrassment was a funny look, as he assumed she wasn’t quite familiar with the feeling.

And he was not, with having her and possibly a settled future in his hands. A little further. He could go back. But there was no drive, not even as she steps forward, clicking her tongue as she inspected the sword. Like a weakness he had wrapped up in teases and turns of phrase.

Interesting. Not wholly appreciated, but interesting.

“Warden, perhaps it would be best to consider the unconventional when it comes to weaponry. Have you considered using your staff to bat the enemy?”


	3. “OH MAKER” [faith][first times]

Beside him, Amell shifts, mouth drawn into a flat line. Immeasurable discomfort present on her face, more weight shifted onto either knee. Back again. Lifts herself onto her arms, trying to stay up — and finally, he can’t help the smile.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you weren’t used to this.”

Inhaling deeply, she releases the air with a little more force than necessary. “Honestly, I’d forgotten what it was like to kneel for this long.”

 _Oh_ , it was just so easy to say something, but she drives her elbow into his side before he gets a chance. “I know what you were thinking. Don’t say it.”

“I was merely going to suggest that a cushion is always helpful.”

Amell closes her eyes, and if it wasn’t for the way the corners of her mouth picked up, the average person might’ve thought her annoyed. The lack of a response has Zevran turn his attention to where an idle chanter continued to drone on. From what he remembered of the chant, they should be nearing the point where the Chanters may have changed, or finally ended their attempt at singing.

“Do you remember Haven?”

“Mmm… which part exactly? A lot happened between the cultists, the dragons, the Guardian—oh and the puzzles!”

She snorts at that, nudging him again. Softer now, all of her. More akin to a bundle of warmth, with how she ignores the chanter, eyes on him. Zevran was never sure how he was supposed to feel. “When you were talking about Hessarian and Maferath, I meant.”

“Ah, yes, the moment when no one believed I had set foot in a chantry before! I remember it well, as that was around the time Leliana ruined my dreams about becoming a brother.”

At the clearing of a throat somewhere ahead of them, Amell turns back. Apologetic, unable to fight her grin. Low whisper aside when one particularly ruffled woman _harrumphs_ enough to have them both shine like apologetic cherubs, above their heads in golden script written ‘ _we can do no wrong_ ’.

“I believe that was the first time I’d heard you say that, you know?”

Smiles that match each other, long since ignoring what was going on around them. Even taking to slouching, just a little, hiding their heads together. Such a casual moment, Zevran could forget what they were here for. “That I did attend the chantry?”

“That you _actually_ paid attention.”

Hand over his heart, Zevran feigns hurt. Almost going so far as to collapse to the side, Amell reaching to right him up. There is no smothered laughter here now, just a couple of titters and clearing of throats. Eyes that mean nothing for the way she can’t open hers, too caught up in her own laugh.

Eventually, eventually, they quieten. Watch the change of chanters, catch their breath. Feel a different kind of energy now. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. Such as right now. Are you ready, my dear lady, for this?”

Sound of many people standing now, and her words are almost lost into the sound. “First time for everything.”

Zevran grins, as they lose themselves in the crowd, target just up ahead.


	4. CANDLELIGHT WHISPERS [opening up][pillow talk]

There is one bed. There is one bed and a candle burning out and the rain hitting the windows. There is one bed that is a touch too small, so their knees bump if they try to move, and their noses brush when they sigh. It is the set up to all the books that she had read, long ago, where the heroine is vulnerable and safe and in love.

Perhaps that is not so wrong to believe. Except Amell crosses lines through the words, holding back over the third. Fourth. Did she consider herself a heroine, or the unfortunate? A series of interlinking events that lead to a grand game. One she had been playing with herself for the last few months, from first cross of blades to last link of fingers.

“You think loudly.” Sleepiness peppers Zevran’s voice in a way he would deny. It is too raw, crackling on the last note. And this comes from the man who promised to stay on guard, lest they attract any unsavoury sorts.

He knows her better, too. Finger against her lips, eyes opening now. Silencing her in one swift movement. “No apologies for it, remember.”

“Easy to say to someone who has had thirty years to develop a habit.” Amell’s words are slightly off around the pressure from his touch, but perhaps her remark made some sense to him. Or, gave him more room, to sink that little closer.

“And they say habits are easy to break.”

“I don’t know who told you that, but I think you may have been lied to.”

Click of his tongue, and Zevran stretches out his arm, to push under her, pull her closer. Such ease, as if they had been lovers for years. “Those dastardly Crows… when will their lies end?!”

They snicker, at the way he holds his free hand against his chest. And though the sleep had not left his voice, he looked all manner of wounded, as if it was the middle of the day and Morrigan had slighted his delicate demeanour. Amell does not question herself, as she shifts forward just a fraction more. Nor when his arm curls around her completely, holding her there.

“It’s been a while since—since I’ve been held. Like this.”

Comment that was supposed to be a thought. Yet she speaks the words into existence. Zevran looks at her curiously, which stretches on far longer than she was ready for. “Is it too much?”

Amell frowns. Probably quicker than she should’ve. Pushing herself up, she stops there. Right where her hair falls to form a curtain, hiding them both away. It is dark, inky black in the candlelight, but Zevran still glows. Soft and warm and whole, golden.

Almost perhaps what a heroine would think.

The brush against her ear, to where the finely jewelled earring sat. It does not startle her, so much as has her lean into the touch. Strange reaction, stranger feelings. “This is perfect.” Amell couldn’t tell if her lips actually parted, but her voice is around them. Contained to this little pocket of the world.

“I’ve had lovers,” idle thought, fingers that brush loose hairs from his face. “But I’ve never _had_ love.”

Trace, down lines that cut along his cheek. Hard and bold, like a heroine should be. “Thank you, for taking the time to love me in return.”

Zevran is quick and quiet, in how he sits upright. Encourages her to let the light in, so that they may hold and be held. Arms that wrap tightly around each other. Enough to sink into the embrace that Amell can forget, for one whole moment, that there is one bed. One candle. One heroine. And her lover that loved her so deeply, he whispered it true, just for them.


	5. ANTIVAN BAD BOY [tattoos][kink]

Thumbs push into the skin, dragging up as if to loosen muscles. Subtle scent of rose, and Amell has to snort, just a little.

“So you were being truthful, before with Alistair?”

Zevran’s smile is far more amused and soft when directed at her. Something she was becoming more and more aware of by the day. “When have you ever known me to lie, dear warden?”

“Surprisingly, never.”

Massaging the skin probably more than necessary. But they had never denied such a touch, not yet, until he begins to sweep a cloth over her arm, drying the skin. Careful and practiced motions that do not betray the conversations that had happened, do happen, will happen. Zevran knew what he was doing, and she trusted him completely.

“Did you think on what you wanted, hm?”

Truthfully, Amell hadn’t. Not even a passing thought, as she eyed the tools beside Zevran. Deep whorls and carefully thought out lines decorated his skin, in many ways he had described to Leliana. And then there were those whispered about, under the blankets, that other Crows had carried. The kind that were experimental and deadly. Ones accompanied with a glint in the eye.

“Not at all,” she says, as he holds the needle over her wrist. “I still maintain that you should surprise me.”

He has that look again. Incredulous in the way it has his brows draw in tight. Definitely not the first, nor the last, to ask whether she was right to trust him so completely. Fingers tighten over her wrist, left, writing hand. One of two that required her to draw upon magic.

Holds her so delicately, tracing veins down to where her joint sat. “I may have an idea.”

“Then by all means.”

Settling back against the log, fire at her feet, Amell smiles as Zevran does not require ink to form the idea. Doesn’t want to spoil the surprise, he says, but he holds the needle, asks, last time. “Do you trust me?”

_Yes._


	6. BLOODSTAINED CLOTHES [injury][dressing up]

Rialto is glitter and glamour and whirling skirts. Sea salt as water hits the cliffside, the spray barely noticed, but appreciated, as she grins behind the mask. Eclipsed by the movement, in how they drew closer still.

Two step. One, two. Back again, arms outstretched, dipped low. Quick movements, dashing in a circle. Following beat and rhythm and how it catches and falls. All around, where if she listened closely, she would hear the movements of materials, silk that pulls against metal and she’s already tilted.

Finds gravity as most becoming so far down; Zevran had always been deceptively strong. Amell is lost in the movements, guiding hands. Fingers that touch, where she follows hard lines and imagines them, just across the room, to where a man may choke. How she holds Zevran close, leg around his hip, and parted lips. Captured breath. Slide of eyes to watch how the man wheezes, clawing at a throat that would not part.

They are not the only ones who have noticed. Too close, and the first dagger finds home upside a helmet. Buried and pushed in as she is spun out once more. Compromised. Known. Swords leave sheathes, but her barrier holds until it cracks.

Zevran is the quicker. The stronger. Sliding to breach, between the fractures of magic. Amell does not question the increase in his artillery — two more, each a solid throw. Deep without hope of health and longevity.

Too slow. She misses the swing. Through the barrier like a warm knife, and she throws it. Herself. Back into the ground. Magic dissipates around her in a familiar green, that is neither cold nor familiar, as the mask breaks and fractures.

There is heat on her face. There is heat on her face and on her attacker’s, burning through metal and screams. Amell could seal the wound with hardly a glance, but it is the fuel and the fire she needed. Where a white dress runs red, and the tide will turn soon. Out of the shadows will come the dark.

For he is ruthless as he finds his target. Whisper, just for those who could listen. Zevran holds the sword, and slowly, effortlessly, leans forward, until the gurgle is no more.

“In peace… Vigilance.”


	7. #RELATIONSHIPGOALS [flirting][the future]

“So… you two have really gotten close, huh?”

Zevran was surprised, truly, that it had taken Alistair more than a week to come back around for another set of comments. And here he had put money on it taking at least three days. With a click of his tongue, he stops mid polish, staring up to where Alistair’s head might’ve been. Back towards the fire, so late in the night. Their watch.

Perfect time to strike.

Gently settling blades aside, Zevran focuses on wiping his hands. Drawing out the tension, to either give Alistair an out, or himself enough time to think. So many ways to block and parry the questions that were no doubt spilling over. But Amell was a far better mind reader than he, and she had been left to snore gently.

“Is that such a bad thing?”

Uncertain on his feet, Alistair shifts weight. Back and forth. Eventually settles for seating himself on the same log as Zevran’s, a professionally courteous distance between them — both in striking distance and likely long taught manners. Wringing his hands, though his eyes never quite leave Zevran’s.

“I—no. Not at all. I just overhead her speaking to Wynne the other day about you two…”

Yes, Zevran too had been regaled with the older mage’s apparent concerns about them. About duty and what would be _the right thing to do._ “I didn’t know that they had spoken,” he lies, instead. Believable in that Amell might’ve kept something.

That to those outside, it was skin deep, and not at all confusing. Not the kind of thing that would have a man allowing the sun to find gold, to roll it around in his palm. To think, for one whole moment, that there was a future and a feeling. To force it all away, for duty and the right thing.

“Oh, really?” Alistair seems to bounce back a touch, ever thriving on idle camp gossip. Once, Leliana had joked that if it wasn’t an overall disdain for Orlesians, he would do well as being the palace gossip.

Leaning back, his eyes rise, recalling minute details he would not entirely divulge. “Mmm, it got pretty heated. I mean, as much as it would for mages without magic, y’know?”

“What was it they said, exactly? No doubt about yours truly!” played off with a smile and a laugh, kick back to hold himself up. Ever the part that was needed and necessary.

Alistair twists into something vaguely smug. Zevran knew better.

“Wynne mostly said that you were a distraction from her ‘Grey Warden Duties’.” Words rounded out with fingers, to emphasise and bolden. Mimicked in a voice not unlike Wynne’s. “And she countered that she well…”

“Hm?”

“She said you were _special_ to her. And she didn’t want to change that.”

No words leave him, so Zevran opts to keep his mouth shut. Frown, at the fire, at Alistair, as he rolls it around in his mind those words. Perhaps they should be meaningless. Amell had not spoken of feelings, at least not out loud. Hands would linger and he awoke in her tent, despite promising that this would have been the night he would finally leave.

Weighty and gold in his pocket. “Is that all? She said much of the same to Leliana.”

“And Shale.”

“Yes, thank you for that reminder.”

How many hours until their watch was over? Zevran blinks, once, twice, thrice. Ignores how Alistair seems to mull over something deeply. How he slides across the log, just a touch closer, a touch more intimate. Fereldens and their strange mannerisms — wouldn’t talk about sex, but would happily invade someone’s space.

“Look, Zevran… she’s told me before that she cares for you. I asked her before Orzammar about it and—and she’s serious.” There is a slight pause. Orzammar. Deep Roads. Broodmothers and the cautionary steps around what might’ve truly happened down there. “I might’ve only really known her a few weeks before you tried to kill us all, but—”

“My friend, I don’t need a pep talk.”

“Shut up for a second. Briseis cares for you. And I think you care for her, too. Wynne was trying to do her weird Circle logic on her — it backfired.”

Finally, Zevran looks over at Alistair. Hands just a touch outstretched, moulded around words, making them more real. More tangible than just a wink and a nudge. Building onto the mounting pressure, that perhaps there was something under it all. Buried under ribs and politics, that Amell could love and be loved in return. Zevran could see the world, just there, in how Alistair may not have considered himself much of an orator, but the persuasion was real.

A touch of emotions, and Zevran knew what he was going to do. Shift of feet, one over the other, and he is perhaps already a man cared for, he had not taken notice. “Thank you, Alistair. Your insight has been most illuminating.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.” Pause, frown. “Did you really think she didn’t care for you?”

Low chuckle, from deep somewhere in his chest. “I think I didn’t want to acknowledge it, truthfully.” Elbows resting on knees, Zevran holds his face in his hands. Watches the way Alistair puts all the words together, and perhaps he does understand. Or he was too young, too idealistic, never loved and lost. He doesn’t question it, no remorse in admitting those words out loud, because his companion smiles — not with pity, but with care. “You tell a soul about this, of course, and I will have to kill you.”

“Considering how poorly you did last time, I’ll take my chances.” Alistair reaches over, threshold breached, a slight shove of Zevran’s shoulder.

The smile doesn’t diminish. Not even as dawn breaks, and she wakes, sleepy and warm under the thin Ferelden sun. As he is hyper aware of the little golden thing, that sits from pocket to pocket, remaining undetected and close. Much like the future, no longer out of reach.


End file.
